Beijing Boyce

Having sampled the vast majority of the city’s drinking holes, The Cellar Rat is a hard imbiber to impress and thus I suggested we start a recent confab at a new microbrewery and pub called Toper. Alack and alas, my less than stellar navigational skills left us lost, so we decided to make like a compass and “go north.” This meant visits to several spots associated with our chillier neighbors - Russia and Mongolia.

We first stopped at the Russian-owned AmbassaD’or Club, near One Thousand and One Nights. The Cellar Rat found the decor somewhat kitschy. “Russian bars and restaurants are always a bit over the top and this one is definitely catering to the clientele,” said TCR. “It’s like ABBA, though. It’s a bit cheesy and out-of-date, but still sort of enjoyable.”

The wine prices are excellent. A Montana Pinot Noir goes for 255 kuai a bottle, a small mark-up, while the budget-conscious can grab a bottle of Santa Rita for 120 kuai. The list includes eight wines by the glass at 25 kuai and up; pours comes in proper glassware. The seating options range from bar stools to a range of tables, the manager speaks English and the staff is efficient.

With a bottle below our belts, so to speak, we yo-ho-ho’d to Treasure Island. This place takes the kitsch up a notch, from the fake tree in the entryway to the disco ball inside, but is spacious and has a worn but warm feel. Expect the staff to expect you to speak Russian, though ordering by pointing at the menu is easy enough.

The main attraction is the floor show. The Thursday night performance featured seven acts, including a trio of women dancing in what I would guess are traditional Russian outfits, in skimpy sailor uniforms, in Central Asian costumes and to what The Cellar Rat described as “sexy music.”

The highlight: a pole dancer that defined the word athleticism. She easily whipped up the four-meter pole and spun sideways, upside down, with both hands, with one hand, with no hands, and with neither hands nor feet (okay, I made that last one up). Several patrons pulled groin muscles just watching this. Notably, she did it while wearing a slinky dress and a G-string. I am not mocking: such skill is humbling for someone who failed the rope-climbing test in physical education class in high school. By the way, it was nice to see the manager, who seemed a model of efficiency, sit down with the performers for some post-show victuals.

We next headed for the glamour of Hollywood, which I suppose one could describe as a somewhat drabber Russian Maggies. This is a spacious spot with a large four-sided bar in the center, around which foreign men sit with beers and decide whether or not to make contact with the ladies. Take it or leave it, depending on how you swing (we left). By the way, the male toilet attendees try to provide shoulder massages at the sink for tips. Sidestepping them is not easy.

Accompanied by a T shirt-wearing tourist named Bob we met at Hollywood, we made the last stop Maggies. Packed to the rafters and offering decent music, plenty of people-watching opportunities and the famous hot dog cart out front, Maggies was, well, Maggies.

One of the joys at Maggies, especially the old one, is watching Mongolian women casually dispose of hyper-competitive men on the pool table. A vivid example is the guy heavily chalking his cue on every shot, agonizingly checking angles, winding up a dozen times and then sorely missing, followed by his Mongolian opponent draining balls left and right while showing as much apparent interest as she might in checking her nails.

By the way, next time you visit Maggies, take some time out from staring down tops and gaze skyward. This is a lovely building with a high stucco ceiling crossed by colorfully decorated beams normally associated with traditional Chinese architecture. A small bit of reflection on the past might trigger some on the future and prevent soon-to-be-regretted alcohol-fueled decisions you are about to make. Trust me, one hot dog, not two, is enough.